


Lonely rivers flow to the sea

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jukeboxes, M/M, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers, S:22 E:17 - Flaming Moe, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Smithers has come to the conclusion that he needs to quit his job at the power plant. This revelation calls for a celebration! And what better place to do that than at Moe's, with none other than Moe himself?This is my first work for the Simpsons fandom, and I'm dedicating it to one of the less popular ships because I am a simp for both of these characters and they deserve happiness! Enjoy your read![Title from the classic Righteous Brothers song; Unchained Melody!]
Relationships: Waylon Smithers & Moe Szyslak, Waylon Smithers/Moe Szyslak
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Lonely rivers flow to the sea

After a long day at the power-plant, Waylon Smithers was exhausted. Worked dry by his boss, Mr. Burns, who only had more and more demands for him each day, while Smithers lost more and more enthusiasm to listen to those demands. The paycheck sure helped, but now that Smithers had been put in his place in terms of possibilities of a work-room romance with his boss (to clarify, there were none) he had finally woken up.

All these years, these _decades_ of blindly following Mr. Burns' every order and command, wasted. It was a job, yes, so he could pay for his house and all the Malibu Stacy dolls he could possibly want - one of the few perks of working for a grumpy old multi-billionaire - but was it really worth it? Did Waylon really believe that this trainwreck of a story had a happy ending?

Well, not anymore he didn’t. He’d made a compromise for himself; to keep working for Mr. Burns until he’d secured himself another relatively well paying job. But he was done with sucking it up to the geriatric plutomaniac. Of course, he’d still maintain a professional behavior, obey his boss’s orders, but he no longer felt the need to please or placate Mr. Burns like earlier.

So after work, he didn’t offer to stay late and help with any additional tasks, like he usually would. Instead, he left the building as soon as his shift was over, only sending his boss a friendly wave before turning on his heel and walking out, feeling sharp, narrow eyes follow him until he was out of sight.

Once outside of the power plant, Smithers exhaled a long sigh of relief, energized with a feeling of solace, of peace.

He never got off work this early, and when he did, he had no idea what to do with his time. He could try his luck with the gay-club downtown, but then again, he didn’t fancy being rejected twice. However, he knew a place where he was always welcome… It certainly couldn’t hurt to try.

A short bus ride later, Waylon was on the doorstep to Moe’s Tavern, hesitant to walk in. This wasn’t his scene. A sad, middle-aged, gay man was not a sight he wanted to bestow upon any bar patrons. But as he mulled it over, he realized that the owner/bartender inside wasn’t all that different from him. Besides, Moe was the major reason Smithers came here. And what did Smithers have to lose, really?

The doorbell sounded as Waylon stepped inside. Not a soul inhabited the bar but the one Smithers came to see, who lifted his head from down at a wine glass he was polishing to see who had entered. The two men locked eyes from each side of the room, and a smile graced the bartender’s features.

“Well if it ain’t my ol’ business partner, Waylon Smithers! How the heck are ya?”

Smithers felt lighter at once with the warm welcome, made at ease, and he strode across the floor to take a seat on one of the high barstools. He offered Moe a small smile, noting how his own hands were fidgeting beneath the counter. If only he could keep his nerves in check.

“Oh, you know, so-so. You?” he asked, eyes drifting to the several squeaky clean glasses lining the counter and then to the stained rag in the other man’s hand. Single-handedly taking care of this place must be lonely, he mused, unconsciously putting a furrow in his brow. Difficult too, no doubt about it, but Moe clearly had the passion to keep doing it every day. Smithers really admired him for that.

Something old and sweet played on the ancient jukebox in the corner of the room, enough to create somewhat of an atmosphere, even with just the two of them here.

Moe shrugged. “I could be worse. I mean, you’re here, ain’t ya?” he said, gesturing to his friend and ex-business partner.

Compliment or not, those words struck Smithers a certain way, wriggling their way into his chest and creeping uncomfortably close to his heart.

 _He’s just being nice, don’t make it weird,_ he reminded himself, adjusting his glasses despite not needing to. It was a nervous tic he found himself doing often in the presence of people he liked.

The bartender continued before Smithers could get a word in, almost as if in a hurry: “So what can I getcha?”

“Scotch. Plain, please,” replied Waylon, hoping he wasn’t being a nuisance. Perhaps he should make sure.

“Where are your faithful patrons, Homer and the other guys?”

“Eh, y’know. Out and about. They don’t come in ev’ry night, but I’m grateful for any company nowadays,” shrugs Moe, ringing his rag up in the sink before grabbing a bottle of liquor and pouring Smithers a drink. He made a point of not meeting his eyes all the while, and Smithers sympathized with him. After all, they _had_ kissed not too long ago. That miniscule detail would be bound to make things a bit awkward.

Of course, Waylon wasn’t here for a replay of that kiss - although he wouldn’t be _opposed_ to it. He knew Moe was straight and that was that, so he’d be content with his company and a drink or two.

Yet Smithers had to remind himself of this as Moe handed him his drink and their hands briefly touched, Moe averting his eyes with an expression dangerously close to flustered on his face. Smithers could still find him cute, right? And look at him, and… _pine_ for him?

“Thanks,” Waylon said before downing his drink in one gulp, holding back a cough when the pungent, fiery substance coated his throat, his eyes watering a jot. Picking up another glass to polish, Moe eyed him thoughtfully out of the corner of his eye. This had Smithers’ already present nerves going topsy-turvy. Quietly, Moe spoke up: “So it’s been _that_ kinda day, huh?”

Smithers huffed out a tired laugh, nodding somberly. He should have held himself more carefully and hidden his fatigue, he wasn’t here to project his problems onto the bartender.

“Yeah, you could say that,” his answer was reluctant, there was no point in trying to excuse himself now. But he could still spare his friend of the more depressing thoughts that occupied his mind, lurking and waiting for an opportunity to break free.

“Anything ya wanna talk about? I’m all ears,” encouraged Moe, breaking Waylon out of his state, if only to make his cheeks tinge pink. Because Moe leaned ever-so-slightly over the counter, a mix of friendly curiosity and concern showing on his face, and Smithers had to take a moment to compose himself.

At least Moe no longer seemed rushed, so that helped Waylon work up the courage to speak. He could use a chance to ventilate…

“It’s mostly work, so it’s nothing serious. But you know my boss, Mr. Burns can be…” he began, but quickly trailed off, not wanting to speak ill of someone he worked for, no matter who the person was. Moe, however, had no difficulty filling in the blank for him, hitting the nail on its head with his response: “An asshole?”

By pure instinct and a years-long habit to defend his supervisor, Smithers shook his head violently.

“No, no! Of course not, I would never-”

Moe tossed the rag over his shoulder, his glass-polishing put on pause so that he could cross his arms over his chest and glare at Smithers, wordlessly signaling him that _‘you know I’m right’._ He could be incredibly sassy when he wanted to.

“... Well, yes, he _can_ be an asshole. Still, I work for him, so I owe him respect.”

“You don’t owe him jack!” snapped Moe, promptly shutting the other up.

“He treats you like garbage and ev’ryone in this town knows it! Yea, you need a job that pays the bills, but you deserve to be treated better!”

The silence that followed Moe’s words was prominent, and the jukebox didn’t help, as it changed tracks right then. A lively melody trickled out of the speakers, most unfitting, and the change of pace seemed to shake Moe up. Realization flashed in his eyes and he stumbled a step back, as though he’d been struck.

And Smithers was no better himself, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, stunned by Moe’s outburst.

“M’sorry, I dunno what got into me. I shouldn’t’ve-...”

“You’re fine!” blurted Waylon, flustered and panicked. Moe pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, taking a staggering breath. Why did he look so pained, so guilty? What he said was the kindest thing Smithers had heard in months, if not _years_. While the confirmation of others' awareness of his boss’s abuse wasn’t fun to hear, Waylon thought he may have _needed_ it nonetheless. And the part about him deserving better? Did Moe really mean that?

Trying to defuse the tension and get the conversation back to a somewhat calm one, Waylon spoke: “Moe, really, you’ve done nothing wrong. I actually appreciate it, more than you can know.”

Finally, Moe looked up at him, tentative and sheepish. He rubbed at his neck with one hand, the other going for his rag so he could go back to cleaning something. Maybe it was a force of habit?

“Still, it’s your job, and I’ve got no right to tell you how to do it,” mumbled the bartender, occupying himself with wiping off the counter, despite it already being spotless. Smithers knew Moe could beat himself up about certain things, he’d heard stories, but witnessing it firsthand was a bit heart-wrenching.

Choosing his words warily, he said aloud, for the first time in his life: “I plan on quitting,” and that got Moe’s immediate attention. He came to a halt mid-wipe, almost lighting up.

“Well, that’s great!” he exclaimed, the wide smile that grazed his features and made his eyes crinkle at the corners enough to make Waylon gush. The other must have read this as something else entirely, for his smile quickly faded, and he added: “I mean, right? Isn’t it?”

Smithers really must learn to tame his emotions.

“No, it is, it definitely is! It’s just that I can’t do it right away. I’ll have to go through some paperwork and find another job with a similar salary first.”

This caused Moe to deflate a little, his shoulders dropping back down to the hunched posture he usually carried. His discontent was imminent, but baffling. Why did he care so much about what happened to Smithers? They were friends, sure, but they weren’t all that close.

And endearing as it was, it confused Waylon till no end. And it gave him false hope that Moe might care for him as much as he did for Moe.

“Are you okay? Can I get you a drink?”

“Huh?” asked Moe, shifting his weight around. An all-too-familiar tune began playing on the jukebox, Bobby Hatfield’s soft voice singing.

_Oh, my love, my darling_

_I've hungered for your touch…_

Jesus, Smithers thought, were they in some sort of tragic rom-com?

“That’s, uh-... That ol’ jukebox just plays what it wants to, I can change it-” started Moe, setting off towards the other side of the room, and an odd thought struck Waylon then.

Jukeboxes didn’t play ‘whatever they wanted’, they play what people put into it. And no one but the two of them were here right now… So had _Moe_ been listening to love songs? By _himself?_

Acting on instinct, he called out: “You can leave it!”, letting his heart drive him on autopilot for once.

Moe whirled around, blinking at the other in disbelief. Face hot, Smithers continued: “I- It’s a nice song, is all. I don’t mind.”

Mute, Moe trotted back to the bar, sliding up behind it and grabbing a bottle of booze.

“I could use a drink, actually…” he muttered, pouring them both a glass. Waylon eagerly accepted his, he was way in over his head here. This wouldn’t end well. Fairytale endings were reserved for young people who’d done right in life, not for middle-aged loners with unrequited feelings towards the wrong people.

Yet the music was mocking him.

_Lonely rivers sigh_

_"Wait for me, wait for me"_

_I'll be coming home, wait for me_

Both men swiped their glasses a bit faster than they perhaps should have. The heat of the bourbon rooted itself in Smithers’ chest, relaxing his tensed muscles and giving him the courage he needed to ask: “Are you happy here?”

But word choice was clearly key here, because Moe appeared to interpret this differently. Eyes darting back and forth between the glossy surface of the counter and Smithers’ bespectacled eyes, he stumbled over his words.

“W- What?”

So Waylon made to elaborate.

“With this job, I mean. In this town, where you are right now.”

His heartbeat thrummed loudly against his ribcage and he made an arduous attempt in ignoring the love song playing in the background.

“Oh,” breathed Moe, lowering his head. Smithers restrained himself from reaching out and laying a hand atop Moe’s, which was trembling where it lay across the counter.

“I guess… I ain’t where I thought I’d be twenty years ago, but ’m not complainin’ either. I got a steady job, I get to drink all the booze I want, y’know, it could be way worse.”

He didn’t sound too happy, but Waylon didn’t want to press him any further, because he had a feeling Moe didn’t talk about himself too often. When asked something, _anything at all,_ he looked shocked, and no wonder! Patrons often liked to complain about their problems to the bartender, but how many times did the bartender get to do that himself?

Now that Smithers thought about it, maybe he was a bit biased. Having caught feelings for someone this kind would do that to you.

“It just seems lonely, is all,” blurted Waylon, tongue loose from the liquor and the events that had transpired throughout the evening. He mentally kicked himself, painfully aware of his indiscretion.

Moe held his eyes for a heated moment before straight-up swigging a shot directly from the bottle, grimacing when swallowing the contents down. He wiped at his mouth and said, grimly: “It would. You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

Smithers quickly backpedaled. He shouldn’t have any more to drink tonight.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” replied Moe, offering the other the smallest of smiles, reassuring and intimate. He had propped himself up against the counter right across of Smithers, almost as though _challenging_ him to do something. Waylon took a deep breath, noting the sharpness of it, the volume of it in the near silent bar.

“So are you?… lonely, that is?”

He was pushing it, he knew this, but as mortified as he was, part of him craved the risk, the opportunity to get closer to the bartender.

Taking an equally sharp breath, Moe spoke.

“I have my moments, yea. You got any suggestion of how to resolve that, Waylon?” he asked, dangerously low, inching closer and closer to the other.

With his heart in his throat, his resolve crumbling before his very eyes and a little bit of dutch courage, Smithers reached across the bar and gently grasped Moe’s hand in his, allowing him to pull away if he so desired. But Moe simply stared back at him with half-lidded eyes, keenly awaiting his next move.

“Oh, I can think of a few suggestions,” managed Waylon, breath hitching when the other laced their fingers together, showing approval to his words. Slowly, as though the moment would slip away if he moved too fast, Smithers lifted the other hand up to Moe’s nape, curling his fingers around the curve there and reeling at the warm smooth skin beneath his fingertips, right where it meets grey curls.

Together, they gradually shortened the breadth of space between them, now only a breath away from each other’s lips, but that was when the doorbell rang out and the door swung open.

Startled, they both jerked back, Smithers almost falling off the barstool, and in swarmed Homer and the rest of the gang, Lenny, Carl and Barney.

“Heyy, hope we weren’t interrupting anything important here,” teased Lenny, quickly catching onto what was going on, and Smithers’ heart lurched as he watched Moe rapidly shake his head.

“Nah, nah, n- nothing important. We were just having a conversation, didn’t exactly expect ya to just barge in like that,” he rambled, redder than ever. Homer and Barney stumbled up to the bar, trying and failing to get up on the barstools - _clearly_ , they already had a couple of drinks before this - while Lenny and Carl eyed each other, grinning.

Carl put his hands up in the air to show he meant no ill intent, but still went on to say: “I didn’t realize you were taking the ‘e’ out of Moe’s again, Szyslak.”

He and Lenny shared a light laugh, but Smithers felt the opposite of light or happy. He needed to get out of there right now.

As Lenny and Carl made to take their seats, Waylon hoped he could slip away unnoticed, but he felt Moe’s dejected, apologetic eyes on him, and that hurt more than any almost-kiss ever could.

“Waylon! Er- Smithers, where’re ya goin’?”

His pleading tone only made it more difficult for Smithers to leave, and he lingered in front of the door, hand on the knob, eyes squeezed shut in pain.

“I gotta take care of something. You guys have a fun evening.”

And with those words, he left.


End file.
